“Fun… fun?” Furrowing my eyebrows, I tap my chin and squint at the ceiling. “I think I’ve heard of that.”

With a chuckle, he waves his hand in a tight circle, urging me on.

My eyes flit around the dining room—it’s nearly empty now, and only a dozen guests remain, chatting over pushed-back plates and cups of coffee. “I played sports growing up too—mostly soccer—but not so much lately. Christina has been begging me to play on her adult rec team, but I haven’t been able to fit it in my schedule. Once upon a time, I used to like camping.”

“Camping? Really?”

“I grew up on the doorstep of a national forest. I practically lived outside as a kid.” I tilt my head to the side. “You’re surprised?”

“You’re just so…” He brushes his shoulders off and straightens an imaginary bow tie. “And in our weekly video conferences, you wear those dresses—very professional. But pretty too. Colorful.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh, um…”

He laughs. “I’m saying I like them. Your style is like you—a sucker punch people don’t see coming.”

My lips part, but no words come out.

Wincing, Graeme scrubs a hand along the back of his neck. His tricep pops beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt. “And I’ve officially creeped you out.”

“Only a little. Just a tiny creep. Like the size of a gremlin.”

Truth? The thought of Graeme watching me during our video-conferenced weekly staff meetings, taking notice of what I’m wearing, appreciating how I look, has me preening.

And being compared to a sucker punch? Best. Compliment. Ever.

“Well, it was all a very ham-handed way to say I have a hard time picturing you camping,” he adds, a flush creeping along his cheekbones. “Why ‘once upon a time’ though? You don’t camp anymore?”

“Not for a few years.”

“That’s a shame.”

“That’s life, right? You get busy, your career comes first. Other things end up falling by the wayside.”

“Unless you make time for those other things.”

“Easier said than done.”

“True. But life is what you make it. It’s a balancing act. If all you do is work, you’ll wake up one day—ten, twenty, fifty years from now—utterly exhausted. Then you’ll be dead.”

Well, that’s a depressing thought. “And you’re just out there living it up?”

“Me and my girl, Winnie. All day, every day.”

My chest constricts, and I sprawl in my chair, casually perching an arm along the back. “And Winnie is your sister? Your girlfriend?” I hate how my voice has risen an octave.

His lips crack into a wide grin. “Smooth. No, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

My inner tigress rumbles its approval and I immediately recoil. Since when do I care whether Graeme has a girlfriend?

“Or a sister, for that matter. Only child. Winnie’s my dog,” he explains.